A Bali Conspiracy Most Foul

by Shamini Flint

  Nuri straightened her thin shoulders. She said, ‘They are on Jalan Legian.’

  Abu Bakr shouted, ‘Be quiet, sister. Don’t tell them anything!’

  She did not appear to notice the interruption. She continued, ‘It is a Hindu ceremony to remember the victims of the Bali blasts.’

  Ghani was parked a few blocks down the road from Jalan Legian. He was in two minds whether to leave the engine running or not. It was such a hot day that he had a genuine fear that the explosives might detonate. He needed the air-conditioning to feel more secure. On the other hand, the last thing he needed was to run out of petrol. Ramzi had stolen the van the previous day. They didn’t even know if the gauges on the thing worked properly. It was not a pleasant sensation to sit on top of 500kgs of explosives wondering whether he was about to become part of a massive fireball. Not that he minded dying. In fact, there was very little likelihood of him surviving the day. He knew that and was reconciled. It was all about the task at hand. He needed to use his vehicle bomb to cause maximum devastation to the thousands of infidels gathered to carry out their sacrilegious activities.

  Ghani wondered whether Yusuf would fail them. It was quite possible. But he had Ramzi on the scene as well. Unknown to young Yusuf, his designated suicide bomber, there were alternatives if he had a change of heart. *

  Yusuf was sitting on the ground, part of a large group of people watching the rituals unfold. His knapsack bomb was on his back. He was pouring with sweat, his T-shirt soaked through. He shivered every time a gust of wind weaved its way through the people to him. Droplets of sweat fell off his hair and dripped onto his glasses. Wiping them with his T-shirt, he had smeared the plastic lenses. The world as he saw it was covered in a grimy smudged layer. Yusuf could, however, see enough to know that the people around him were Balinese. They were infidels undoubtedly, indulging in their unholy rituals. But they were not the real enemy. He had been determined to kill Americans. That was what the martyrs of September 11th had done and they were revered for it among jihadists.

  Even the killing of Australians in the first bomb had bothered him but Ghani had explained, and Abu Bakr had seconded him, that the Australians were assisting the Americans in their war against Moslems. Yusuf peered around him. He could see some Westerners, of course. They were mingling with the locals, their attention on the priests and the dancers and the storytellers. On the grandstand with its bamboo canopy, there were even more whites, the families of those already killed. It struck Yusuf for the first time that it was unfair to target these people. They had already lost loved ones. Surely they had learnt their lesson and understood not to wage war on Moslems? He wiped his glasses again and looked at his watch. Ten minutes to twelve. He stood up. It was time to wander a little closer.

  Bronwyn spotted Yusuf as he stood up. She stared at him, trying to decide if it was really the quiet young man from the flat – the one who had been so concerned when Nuri fainted. Really, that young girl was quite something. Married to one man, in love with another and with a third, this rather pathetic young man with the oversized glasses and wispy beard, besotted with her.

  Should she go up to Yusuf, she wondered. He might know where Ramzi was. It seemed a bit crass to accost him in the midst of a remembrance ceremony. But if she waited, there was every chance she would lose him as the multitudes swarmed away at the end. Truth be told, she was a little bored of this extended purification ritual. How long could one watch a bunch of priests chanting and wailing anyway? She imagined the inspector’s face if she was to discover the location of his prime suspect. He would be pleased – but also annoyed that he had not been the one to track him down. Bronwyn felt that she knew the cranky policeman from Singapore well enough to predict his responses accurately.

  Bronwyn decided on the spot that, when she got back to Sydney, she would ask to be moved to a murder squad. If she implied that it might buy her silence, she might even get her request. She would still call a few reporters and explain how she’d been sidelined for telling the truth – once she had her new position they wouldn’t dare shunt her aside again. It was a devious plan. Inspector Singh would be proud.

  Yusuf had made his way to the grandstand. Bronwyn made up her mind. She would corner him and ask him about Ramzi’s whereabouts. If necessary, she would take him into custody. It would give her an excuse to abandon the ceremony.

  She got to her feet, feeling her trousers stick to her thighs and groin. It really was too humid for words. Bronwyn made her way through the crowds, muttering apologies as she stumbled over outstretched legs.

  Yusuf was not looking in her direction. He was staring at the chanting priests. He took a few tentative steps forward, stopped and glanced at his watch again.

  Bronwyn’s phone rang. She looked around to see if anyone had noticed. It was too embarrassing that she had forgotten to switch it off. Still, it was not like it had rung in church. The whole place was awash with noise – music, storytelling, the chanting of priests, the squealing of animals, the murmured prayers in the crowd. She fished the mobile out of her handbag. It was the inspector. She wondered whether to answer it. He knew where she was. He wouldn’t be calling unless it was important. On the other hand, knowing the crotchety old bastard, he wouldn’t give a damn about interrupting a religious ceremony to give her some trivial instructions. The phone stopped ringing but started again almost immediately. It was Singh once more – she would have to answer.

  Nyoman was speeding Inspector Singh towards Jalan Legian. Singh had rushed out of the police station, shouting instructions to the duty manager. An attack on the purification ritual was imminent. They needed to notify security. He was on his way to the Sari Club. He might be able to do something. Do something? Singh had no idea what he was suggesting. What could he do? His mind, usually so reliable in thinking through problems, was an unruly tool at that moment. His thoughts were flitting all over the place. Singh remembered Bronwyn. She was there – at the ceremony. He grabbed his mobile phone and punched numbers, his stubby fingers clumsy in panic.

  ‘Why doesn’t she answer?’ he yelled in anger and frustration.

  ‘What’s the matter, Pak?’ Nyoman was looking at him in the rearview mirror.

  ‘Another bomb – same place – Sari Club,’ said Singh, redialling Bronwyn’s number.

  Nyoman turned as white as a sheet. ‘At the ceremony?’

  Singh nodded.

  Bronwyn picked up the phone and said briskly, ‘Can’t you even get through a day without me?’

  Singh was almost incoherent with panic. He shouted, ‘They’re terrorists. They’re planning an attack where you are!’

  Bronwyn pressed the phone to her ear and cupped a hand over her other ear to try and hear better. A prayer ritual was reaching some sort of climax. The cacophony was tangible against her eardrums.

  She said, ‘I didn’t catch that, I’m afraid. Can you repeat what you said?’ She spotted Yusuf again and continued, ‘You’ll never guess who I just saw. I’m on my way to have a word with him …’

  Singh’s blood turned to ice in his veins. He shouted, ‘Who? Who is it?’

  There was a lull in proceedings and Bronwyn heard him. ‘Yusuf,’ she said. ‘You know, that skinny one with glasses from the flat.’

  ‘Does he have a backpack?’

  Bronwyn glanced over at Yusuf. ‘Yes, why do you ask?’ ‘It’s a bomb.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me – it’s a bomb. Get security to take him out. The others are around as well. Look out for them.’

  He could hear Bronwyn spluttering incoherent questions but he ignored them and hung up. Nyoman had brought the van to a standstill behind the barriers blockading Jalan Legian.

  ‘I can’t go further. What now, boss?’

  Singh stared up and down the street. There was nothing to be seen.

  He said to Nyoman, ‘I’m going in. If you see a white van – it’s a vehicle bomb. Call me.’

  The fat policeman clambered out of the Kij
ang, waved his identification at the guards and hurried down the street towards the Sari Club.

  Bronwyn looked around for security. There were a few Balinese policemen standing at regular intervals. If she approached them, what could they do? Any attempt by uniformed policemen to get close to Yusuf would provoke him to detonate his bomb. She noticed for the first time the women and young children in the crowd. Bronwyn felt sick to the stomach – she had to stop him.

  She decided surprise was the best form of attack.

  She walked briskly up to Yusuf and said, ‘Yusuf, how nice to see you here. We’re looking for your friend, Ramzi. Do you know where he is?’

  Yusuf stared at her blankly. Her words did not seem to have registered. Bronwyn noted the strong odour and the smudged glasses. Yusuf was petrified. She could smell the fear on him, the musky stench of a wild beast caught in a forest trap.

  She said in her friendliest tone, one part of her mind admiring her ability to sound so nonchalant, ‘Yusuf, we’re looking for Ramzi.’

  Yusuf’s hands, limp by his sides, twitched. Bronwyn braced herself to leap at him. She was twice his size, she thought grimly. She might be able to keep his hands away from the detonator until backup arrived.

  Yusuf asked in a dazed voice, ‘You are police, right?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘I don’t want to do it.’

  Bronwyn froze. She asked carefully, ‘What don’t you want to do?’ All the time she watched his hands.

  Yusuf waved his arms in a wide arc. He whispered, ‘Kill all these people.’

  Bronwyn wished she had been trained for a situation like this. Yusuf could be talked down, persuaded not to go ahead – she was sure of it. But Bronwyn was not convinced she had the skills to nudge him towards that end.

  She said, ‘You don’t have to do it – you can change your mind.’

  ‘They’re not Americans, you see.’

  This was not the time to be arguing for the universal sanctity of human life, thought Bronwyn grimly.

  She made a show of looking around. ‘It’s mostly Balinese,’ she said.

  He looked at her sharply. ‘They are infidels too.’

  Bronwyn nodded immediately. ‘Of course! But not so wicked as the Americans.’

  Yusuf nodded. ‘Exactly! That is what I was telling the others …’ He trailed off, tugging at his beard.

  ‘I think you should reconsider,’ said Bronwyn in a firm tone. ‘Why don’t you just pass me the bag and we can discuss the best thing to do?’

  Yusuf glanced at his watch. It was five minutes past twelve. He said in a plaintive voice, ‘I was supposed to set it off at twelve.’

  ‘Well then, it’s too late anyway.’

  She held out her hand for the bag. Yusuf slipped it off his back and held it out to her. Bronwyn felt tears of relief welling up in her eyes.

  A hundred yards away, Ramzi decided that Yusuf had blown his big chance to do the right thing by his God. Matters would have to be taken out of his hands. He dialled a number on his phone.

  Twenty

  Bronwyn and Yusuf both heard the phone ring in the rucksack. Yusuf was perplexed. Bronwyn guessed immediately. The terrorists had doubted Yusuf’s commitment. And they had planned accordingly. Clever bastards, she thought as she grabbed the bag from the unresisting Yusuf, took two big strides and flung herself into the bomb crater in front of the Sari Club, the rucksack hugged close to her body.

  Singh heard the blast and his heart seemed to stop. Bronwyn hadn’t managed to prevent Yusuf exploding his device. Immediately, all other sounds were drowned out by shrill screams. Singh could see hordes of people racing towards him, running away from the explosion in a blind panic. Singh had a horrible feeling of déjà vu. Wasn’t this what had happened at Paddy’s Bar? Many of the eventual victims had run towards the Sari Club, towards the second, bigger bomb.

  The first wave of terrified screaming people was only a few hundred yards away from him.

  Singh turned around slowly. He was three hundred yards away from the police barrier. Nyoman was parked next to the kerb. As he looked down the narrow road, Singh saw a white van pull out of a side street.

  Ghani heard it. The sound of a distant explosion. Hundreds of people would soon be racing down Jalan Legian towards him. He drove slowly out to the main street, then turned the van to face the police barrier. This was the moment of truth.

  Singh knew at once that the white van was the vehicle bomb. There was no doubt in his mind. He started running back towards the barrier, the crush of people almost upon him. He was shouting, gesticulating to the security at the barrier but they were staring at him in bewilderment – and staring beyond him at the crowds rushing forward.

  One of the policemen began to move the barriers, pulling at them to create more space for the people to get through. Singh screamed at him to stop. He was going to give the van direct access to the crowds.

  Ghani, driving forward slowly, couldn’t believe his luck. The security guards were moving the barriers. He would be able to drive right through and detonate his vehicle bomb in the midst of the infidels. His earlier plan had been to abandon the vehicle, dash for cover and explode the bomb remotely. But now Allah was showing him a way to enhance His glory and Ghani’s too. He thought of Nuri for a moment. She was the reason that a field commander was prepared to become a martyr. He gathered speed.

  Singh was right in the middle of the unfolding tragedy and he couldn’t stop it. The white van was hurtling down the street. The police had suddenly become aware of the vehicle as its speed manifested its hostile intentions. They started to drag the heavy barriers back. Singh could see they would be too late. In any event, if the van could not get to the people, the people were on their way to the van – little realising that they were fleeing a past danger and heading for a catastrophe.

  All he could do was witness this disaster. He was impotent to prevent it. Singh realised in that split second that he probably wouldn’t survive the blast either. He discovered, almost to his surprise, that he did not want to die.

  One of the policemen pulled a gun and started shooting. The white vehicle weaved from side to side, trying to present a more difficult target. The crowd would soon be breaking like waves around the policeman from Singapore. They were so intent on running away they had not yet noticed what lay ahead of them.

  He wished he had thought to try and turn them back. It would probably have been impossible, like stopping a runaway train. But he could have tried.

  Singh turned back to watch the van.

  He saw Nyoman manoeuvre the Kijang onto the road. What was he doing? Making a dash to get away, suspected Singh. He wished him luck. Where Nyoman had been parked was a ringside seat to a mushroom cloud. Nyoman was accelerating.

  Singh realised that he was not trying to escape. He was heading straight for the white van. A few hundred yards still separated the vehicle bomb and the fleeing crowds. If Nyoman could intercept the van, hundreds of lives might be saved. But not his own. He was still too close.

  Ghani had seen the danger from the determined Kijang driver. He tried to swerve. Nyoman had been waiting for the attempt and locked his wheel in an effort to spin the Kijang into the path of the speeding vehicle bomb.

  Once again, Ghani wrenched the wheel to avoid the unexpected obstacle to his plan. He was screaming in frustration. Howling soundless rage at his opponent. He was too late. He rammed into the tail end of the Kijang. The van spun off sideways, running on two wheels, the other two spinning in the air. The Kijang turned a neat three hundred and sixty degrees and came to a stop with a crash against the barriers.

  Ghani desperately tried to control his two-wheeled van. He hit a kerb and the impact collapsed the van back on four wheels. Ghani felt the tyres burst but he didn’t care. He was triumphant. The enemy in the Kijang was beaten.

  And then he saw the shop wall in front of him. He spun the wheel frantically. He slammed on the brakes to the sound of screeching tyres and the smell of b
urning rubber. It was too late. The van hit the wall hard. Ghani flew head first through the windscreen. His head exploded against the concrete.

  Singh hit the deck. The minute the vehicle bomb hit the Kijang, he lay face down in the dirt, waiting for the inevitable explosion. He knew he was too close to escape, but that didn’t mean he had to stand up and greet death like a friend. If she wanted him she could drag him from the road while he hung on for dear, dear life. He didn’t see, but he heard the screeching tyres and the crunching metal as the van hit the wall. Still, he didn’t move. Seconds passed. There was no explosion. He raised his head. The throngs fleeing Yusuf’s bomb had stopped running. Singh stood up. The van was resting against a wall, the front end folded like an accordion. Unbelievably, the impact had not detonated the bomb. The primary explosive used in the detonator was stable. Impact had not been sufficient to start a chain reaction. Trying to escape Nyoman in the Kijang, Ghani had not manually detonated the bomb. There was still enormous danger, most immediately if the smoking van caught fire.

  Singh turned and ran towards the crowd. ‘Bomb!’ he shouted. ‘Bomb in the van!’

  He was not sure whether they heard him or had merely drawn inspiration from his flight. The panic-stricken people turned as one and set off back in the direction they had come. Singh chased after them, a short comic figure, panting and puffing as he ran – determined to get himself and these people out of range of the white van filled with explosives.